


unfair as a crook

by wearethewitches



Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bodyguard, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Geraskier Week, Identity Reveal, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortality, Immortals, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Magic, Protection, honest to god the addams family vibe i got from myself here was whack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Jaskier lunges forwards, grasping at Geralt’s shirt pleadingly. “I beg you, don’t leave me to be the centre of attention alone!”“I thought that was your heart’s desire,” he replies sarcastically, but Jaskier shakes his head rapidly.“No, definitely not.Pleasecome to the ball tonight with me, Geralt.”or - Jaskier asks Geralt to be his bodyguard again. The Witcher doesn't realised he might have been fooled until he catches a guard calling himViscounton the way there.~(geraskier week, day three: protection)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: I am weak, my love and I am wanting [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632970
Comments: 31
Kudos: 549





	unfair as a crook

The Korzybski estate is larger than most Geralt has seen before. Three large villages are established inside of the boundaries, set in curved sections of the walls. It’s almost a kingdom unto itself, with acres upon acres of fruit trees leading up towards the castle on the hill. Apples and pears by the barrel are being hauled onto carts as they pass through, dozens upon dozens of peasants bearing baskets of blackberries, plums, raspberries and red currents.

Jaskier leads him forth through the valley, not stopping to steal a snack as he usually might. It amuses Geralt to find his companion hiding his face, as if he fears he will be recognised. Geralt, of course, assumes it’s because of Jaskier’s sexual escapes – and is proven dearly wrong when they pass the first major checkpoints.

“By Melitele!” A guard jumps to attention, slamming his spear into the stonework above the battlement. Around him, his fellows splutter through their ale and look at Jaskier in fear, the squad commander stepping forwards. Geralt can smell how the air around them changes from pleasant to downright terrified.

“Viscount, it is an honour-”

“Enough,” Jaskier interrupts, cringing from behind his lute case. Weakly, he waves them down, clearly not wanting special treatment.

The commander does as he’s told, but the squad still stand to attention as Jaskier ducks his head, practically running through the open gate. Geralt stays where he is, looking at the commander in askance.

“Why are you calling Jaskier a viscount?”

The commander looks at Geralt like he’s an idiot, his fear lessened – his disbelief clear. “I do not know of this ‘Jaskier’ you speak of. That was Viscount Julian Alfred de Lettenhove, son of Burgrave Pankratz.”

“What?” Geralt says, looking to Jaskier once more. His bard has stopped just past the outpost, looking supremely uncomfortable as he waits for the Witcher and his horse. Geralt squeezes his thighs, urging Roach onwards. He demands an answer from Jaskier, saying, “Viscount de Lettenhove? I thought you were asking me to be your bardic bodyguard again at a party.”

The laugh that Jaskier trills in answer is nervous and far from an answer. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the trip, barely able to mumble _at ease_ whenever they come by a new checkpoint. There are a total of five before they reach the main gates to the castle, an overreaction in Geralt’s opinion – the way the mountains circle the valley, only the most hardened of armies and travellers could cross and even then, only if they were skilled at both adventuring and subterfuge. The way the snow lays across the mountains, glistening in the sunlight, anyone not camouflaged from sight would be seen from a distance of many miles.

In the castle courtyard, Jaskier straightens up, shoulders tilting a certain way. Geralt has seen it before, when the bard has rubbed elbows with fair maidens and masters, but it’s different somehow – like the look in his eyes has changed. Jaskier is clearly familiar with his surroundings and the people familiar with him.

“Julek!” A young girl screams exuberantly, abandoning her game of hopscotch to rush his way. Immediately, there is a chorus of murmurs, the various nobles scattered throughout the yard drifting their way.

“Emilia, my darling,” greets Jaskier in a low voice, lifting her up when she jumps into his arms. “My, how you’ve grown! How old are you now, four? Five?”

“Six! How old are you? Mama says you’re in your fours – happy birthday, Julek!”

Jaskier looks plainly pole-axed at her congratulations. “It’s my birthday?”

An older woman with the same brown hair as Jaskier approaches, kissing Jaskier’s cheek. “Four centuries grown, little brother.”

“Agata, the party-”

“For you.” Agata smiles, though there’s an edge to it. Geralt can tell she’s apprehensive, not saying something that must be important, if she’s so troubled over it – he nearly misses the _four centuries_ comment. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to ask Jaskier what the hell is going, because Agata’s arrival is just the beginning of a deluge of relations that crowd Jaskier and greet him warmly.

Jaskier is right at home. “Marta! How is your new baby? – Adam, is that really you? – no, no, it’s called a _lute_ , Robina – oh, _hello_ Anna, hello Joseph, hello Marcel and Agnieszka and- dear me, are you Dariusz or Piotrek? – by Melitele, _ow!_ That _hurt_ , Mariusz! Devil-man, I call you! – oh, lovely to see you again, Devlin! Restrain our dear cousin, would you? – oh, Joanna, it’s been an age, literally! – can someone take Emilia, please, so I can give my father who I’ve not seen in twelve years a nice little hug-”

As Geralt watches the reunion, a stablehand approaches from the side, slinking forwards to take Roach’s reigns. “I’ve got her, Mister Witcher,” the boy says, too calm. It makes Geralt uneasy. No-one he’s seen in the past few hours have so much as flinched at the sight of him. The boy pats Roach’s nose, saying, “We’ll get your things up to the guest chamber by Lord Julian’s quarters, promise. No snooping allowed here, so you’re safe from thieves. The Count kills criminals after second-strike.”

“What’s second-strike?” Geralt asks, unsure if he wants to know. In answer, the boy taps his knuckles to his head, dislodging his hat to show off a faded brand on his forehead.

“All thieves in the valley got this ‘un, Mister Witcher. First a whippin’, then a brand. Different brands for different crimes, though folks who try abducting the Count’s family get drawn and quartered without remorse.” The boy’s eyes gleam as he leans forwards to say, “Some says that the Count uses their insides for spells and magic!”

“…right,” Geralt replies, finally unhorsing himself. The boy grins at him with broken teeth, leading Roach off towards a tall arch just right of the gates – probably leading into a stable. Craning his neck, Geralt tries to get an idea of the castle architecture in case of a needed escape, raising an eyebrow at the sight of several young girls with their dresses tied up to their waists climbing the side of a tower – and lurching in horror when one of them kicks another, dislodging her. The scream echoes through loud and clear as she drops hard and fast.

“Fuck!” Geralt hisses, looking to Jaskier and his relatives, only to find them still chattering away, unbothered by the screaming. _No-one is bothered,_ Geralt realises, staring in silence at them all. But somehow, when he looks up again at the tower – the group of girls all slipping and sliding on the tiled rooftop, giggling and calling out – he sees her, the girl who fell. She looks completely unharmed, climbing the tower again without trouble. On the wind, he can hear the other girls teasing her, calling her _slippy-fingers_ and other childish names as she hauls herself up and up, until finally, she joins them.

She then proceeds to push her would-be-murderer off the roof. The girl laughs as she falls.

“Geralt.”

Jolted from his reverie, Geralt looks to Jaskier, who pauses to unhitch a new toddler from hip before speaking to him again.

“Geralt, this is my family, the Korzybski’s de Kerack. We’re a large family – a noble family – but we keep to ourselves. Well, we keep to ourselves, except Ferrant. He’s busying himself with King Belohun, currently.” Jaskier stops himself, pausing before clearing his throat and gesturing far and wide. “Welcome to the valley of Lettenhove, home to this lovely castle and my beastly family.”

“Beastly,” repeats Geralt tonelessly, pointedly _not_ looking at the girls on the tower. Jaskier seems to notice his focus on the bard, because he fidgets briefly before exploding with a new set of chatter.

“Yes, anyhow! I was of the understanding that I was invited home to give something of a concert and something of doing an actual bard’s job for this party, for what I assumed was just…a party, of some kind. I didn’t know. It’s hard to remember when your birthday is when you’ve had so many!”

“Oh, Julian,” interrupts one of the men, sounding somewhat sorrowful. “Look at his face. You’ve forgotten to tell him.”

“What? No, Geralt knows, cous,” Jaskier waves off his cousin’s words, stepping forth out of the huddle – shaking off a determined child or two from his breeches – to stand with Geralt. “It’s true, I might have given you a teeny, tiny lie about why I wanted you here with me-”

“Jaskier…”

“-but it was all for a good cause! Friends! For you!” Jaskier gestures to the crowd. Geralt can count over two dozen faces among them, not including the babes. “We live a long time in this family and honestly, Geralt, you need longer-lived friends who you can trust.”

“Don’t trust Mariusz!” A young girl yells, getting immediately elbowed – painfully, by the look of it – by a slightly older boy. There’s a flash of metal, before Geralt is forced to watch as the girl attempts to garrotte him. He struggles briefly, before overpowering her and throwing her into the legs of an adult.

“Mariusz! Let her practice!” A woman scolds him, whacking the boy, Mariusz, over the head with a book. Mariusz scowls at her, sulking as the girl runs off crying, clearly more upset than hurt. Geralt stares.

Mariusz doesn’t have a mark on him.

“Ah, family,” Jaskier sighs fondly, patting Geralt on the arm consolingly, leading him away, finally. “You’ll see a lot of that, here. Don’t get worried unless you see blood – magic is one of the only things that can hurt us, so blood means they aren’t family. Just grab whoever it is and show them to the nearest authority figure. They’ll be dealt with.”

Still shocked at what he’s seen in the last ten minutes alone, Geralt asks the question that needs to be answered. “Jaskier, how old are you?”

“Well, it’s my birthday, apparently,” says Jaskier. His nose scrunches. “I’m four hundred. Not too young, but a bit, _urgh…_ I’m surprised Grandfather hasn’t married me off, yet.”

“Don’t jinx yourself.” Geralt surprises himself by answering like this is normal, like Jaskier isn’t _older_ than him, dammit. As Jaskier leads him inside, he cases the place, surprised at the amount of clutter in the hallways, tables full and groaning at the weight of trinkets and gold. If this were a normal castle, thieves from far and wide would be swimming in coin from looting it.

Then Geralt remembers the stablehand, his thief’s brand clear and obvious. _Second-strike,_ he thinks, wondering how awful the first whipping was, before the branding. The stablehand seemed to have learned his lesson, content in his position – but why would he stay here in the valley of Lettenhove, if all who see him know him to be a thief?

Jaskier babbles as they walk, talking about how pretty his newest nieces and nephews are and how annoying it is to be stabbed by his cousins, who don’t know how expensive his silks are. Geralt slowly absorbs the fact that…that Jaskier is long-lived, if not immortal. He thinks of the djinn and how it nearly killed his bard.

_Magic is one of the only things that can hurt us._

But Geralt has seen Jaskier get beaten up, get bloody noses and awful, flowering bruises that last for weeks on end – he knows that, because Jaskier always complains.

“Oh, someone’s gotten _ideas_ ,” Jaskier says in a scolding manner, when they finally stop outside a door. He fruitlessly tries to push the chest in front of it further under the nearby table, but there’s no room. The bard huffs, kicking it in frustration. “It’s all Kera’s, I’m sure of it. She’s a hoarder. The last time I was here, it took me _hours_ to get all her belongings out of my room!”

“Who’s Kera?” Geralt asks.

“Aunt. Sister. Whatever,” Jaskier brushes his question off, instead entering his room and making a triumphant noise at the sight of familiar bags upon opulent sheets. “Your belongings have been delivered! I’m just upstairs – there’s a spiral staircase behind the tapestry over there leading to my quarters and a bell over there, to ring for servants. Pull thrice for food and four times for a bath. Any less indicates that your sheets need changing and any more means you need medical assistance – lovely system, isn’t it?”

Geralt grunts, confused. _This is my room?_

Jaskier skips towards the tapestry he indicates to before, pulling it back to reveal the promised spiral staircase, which only leads upwards. “Just a tick, Geralt – I want to check on my own _boudoir_ before giving you the grand tour! And before you ask, the servant’s corridor has an actual door that rings a bell, hidden over there by the window on an angle.”

As the bard disappears, Geralt inspects said servant’s corridor, checking the bell mechanism to make sure it works – something he’ll do every time he’s in here, just to be sure it hasn’t been sabotaged – before going through the room itself in search of any other hidden doors or entrances. Most of his actions are instinct though, giving him the mental space to think of Jaskier.

Of Julian Alfred Pankratz.

Why does he have that name? Geralt would have thought to call him a Korzybski, like the rest of them – and are they all immortal? Are they just long-lived, immune to death – how does it work? Are they monsters? Geralt wants to know. He doesn’t want to have to kill Jaskier or his family, if they turn out to be evil in disguise.

When Jaskier finally returns, it is to a guarded Witcher. The bard is dressed anew in a deep purple outfit and doesn’t seem to notice Geralt’s solemnity, too excited by his tunic.

“It’s _clearly_ a gift! Oh, I bet it was Mother who did this stitching – she’s a dab hand at embroidery, but even better at invisible stitches.” Jaskier runs his hands down his front, flouncing about with an invisible dance-partner. Geralt wonders where his lute is. “I never wear purple. I like it, but blue really is the better colour for my complexion. But alas! Grandfather’s colours are purple and Kerack blue, so I must dress suchly!”

Finally, he notices Geralt’s expression. “Whatever is the matter, now?” He questions, hands dropping as he rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Do you think the room too much for a poor Witcher? I assure you that this sort of lavishness is normal for guests of the family and you won’t be allowed less, even in the villages. They’d wait on hand and foot, if it meant making the family happy.” Jaskier huffs, as if this sort of thing is a problem in his opinion – like he hasn’t obviously grown up with this sort of luxury.

Sneering, Geralt says, “What _is_ your family, Jaskier? Or should I call you _Julian?_ ”

Jaskier shudders. “Gods, no. I need a bit of the real me here, in this corner of the world. Everyone here is ‘Julian this’ or ‘Julek that’ and the servants are worse – ‘here, Viscount Julian’, ‘, here, Viscount Pankratz’. _Ugh_ , I shudder at the thought.” He gestures to Geralt, overall. “You’ll need to wear your clean clothes, tonight. Travelling clothes won’t cut it.”

“Then I won’t go.”

“No! Please, please-” Jaskier lunges forwards, grasping at Geralt’s shirt pleadingly. “I beg you, don’t leave me to be the centre of attention alone!”

“I thought that was your heart’s desire,” he replies sarcastically, but Jaskier shakes his head rapidly.

“No, _definitely_ not. When in front of one’s family, your only true desire is to be loved, not to be thrust into the limelight. That leads to arranged marriages and public scoldings. Please come to the ball tonight with me, Geralt.”

Geralt thinks on it. The desperation Jaskier gives off is potent and while Geralt doesn’t like the idea of dressing up, there’s another _something_ to his voice, like Agata’s earlier. Geralt is missing something – and he doesn’t like it.

“Tell me the truth,” he orders Jaskier, giving his ultimatum. Jaskier’s grasp tightens.

“I may… _may_ be getting engaged tonight. To my niece, Ella. It’s not uncommon in this family, when immortality and longevity are passed down. I really, _really_ do not want to get married to Ella. I remember what she was like as a child,” Jaskier cringes, “and she was a brat. Worse than Yennefer and having a murderous temperament. I don’t want to be tied to her for the next three hundred years, waiting for her to die.”

“Die?” Geralt frowns, Jaskier humming quickly, shaking his head.

“She’s second generation. Only six hundred years, for her and the rest, before they die of old age.”

“Aren’t _you_ second generation?” Geralt questions, perplexed. “Who gives you your immortality?”

“Oh, Grandfather,” Jaskier replies, pausing awkwardly. “My adoptive father is my brother. Grandfather made it a rule. He gets to give his children their own children, that last as long as they do. It’s fucked up, but it works. Another reason not to marry Ella – I _really_ don’t want to be raising my own brother or sister borne of my niece, thank-you very much.”

_Freak,_ Geralt grimaces at the thought of Jaskier’s ‘grandfather’. “I’ll stay,” he agrees, uncomfortable at the idea of Jaskier being trapped here – which is clearly what will happen, if he’s married off. Once wed, noble men aren’t allowed to gallivant across the continent with Witcher’s, making pitiful livings as bards.

“ _Lovely,_ ” Jaskier lets out a deep breath, shoulders drooping. “Now, to convince you to marry me.”

“ **What.** ”


End file.
